


No Anarchy in the Universe

by Zoe Rayne (MontanaHarper)



Series: Anonymity is Overrated [1]
Category: Stargate Atlantis
Genre: Anonymous Sex, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2006-05-15
Updated: 2006-05-15
Packaged: 2017-10-11 20:32:04
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,068
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/116791
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/MontanaHarper/pseuds/Zoe%20Rayne
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>
  <em>He caught a glimpse of a silhouette in the dim light of the corridor before the guy stepped inside, the curtain dropping back into place behind him and leaving them in near pitch darkness.</em>
</p>
            </blockquote>





	No Anarchy in the Universe

**Author's Note:**

> Written for the [Cuff 'Em, Vamp 'Em, or Just Make 'Em Come Already Kink and Cliché Multi-Fandom Challenge](http://svmadelyn.livejournal.com/362237.html). Prompt: Masquerade(-ish) and sex in the dark; honestly, though, I riffed more off a different entry on eliade's list (anonymous sex/glory holes). _Mea culpa_. I'm a bad challenge participant.
> 
> There was a gay dance club in Denver called Bent, but as far as I know it bore no resemblance whatsoever to the club John goes to. The kinky backroom area in my story owes much more to places like Babylon (from _Queer as Folk_ ) than to any real Denver gay hangout.
> 
> Thanks to Casspeach for being wonderfully supportive throughout the process, even when I was cranky; and (*koff* grudgingly *koff*) to Libitina, for poking holes in the first version of this and making me rewrite the whole thing. And also for yelling at me on the phone for the hour and a half before the deadline, forcing me to write, and to Rachael Sabotini for beta duty.

> There is no chance, and no anarchy, in the universe. All is system and gradation. Every god is there sitting in his sphere.  
>  —Ralph Waldo Emerson

The wall under John's hands and against his cheek was hard and smooth and cool; _probably made out of the same plastic stuff as cheap shower enclosures_ , he thought. The guy behind him thrust again, grunting against John's shoulder as he did, and John pushed back a little, trying to speed things up. The fact that he was thinking about shower enclosures...or, hell, capable of thinking at all, was not a point in the guy's favor.

One of the hands wrapped around his hip shifted, sliding toward his dick, and John pushed it away. Tonight he wanted more than this lousy fuck, and if he got off now it'd be a couple of hours before he could come again. "I'm good," he said. _Hurry up and finish_ , he thought, and arched his back a little, looking for a better angle.

At least the guy didn't hang around after he was done; John barely had his own jeans pulled up and the guy was already slipping out through the heavy black curtains, the move letting in a sliver of light that striped across John's thighs and made him blink at the relative brightness.

"Yeah, it was great for me, too," John muttered. "Maybe we can get together again sometime."

It had been another long, frustrating day of debriefings at the SGC, and then a long, frustrating rush-hour drive from Cheyenne Mountain up to Denver; he just wanted to get thoroughly fucked—maybe sucked off, too—and then go crash in his hotel room and, hopefully, repeat the whole process tomorrow. With maybe less of the frustration and more of the getting sucked off.

He leaned one shoulder casually against the wall, hips canted and hand slowly stroking his dick, letting his eyes adjust to the darkness again and waiting for the next guy to come along. He didn't have long to wait; the curtain moved aside and he shifted his hips so that the narrow strip of illumination from the corridor highlighted the twist of his wrist and the flushed head of his dick as his hand slid down the shaft. He caught a glimpse of a silhouette in the dim light of the corridor before the guy stepped inside, the curtain dropping back into place behind him and leaving them in near pitch darkness.

John blinked, his heart suddenly pounding, but there was no way he'd seen what he thought he had. For all that _Bent_ catered to a higher class of customer, their back rooms were still only a step up from a truck-stop glory hole; this was the last place he could imagine Rodney McKay turning up.

The soft sound of footsteps on tile seemed magnified in the darkness, and then there were hands on John's shoulders, one sliding down his arm to rest at his wrist, and he kept jacking himself slowly, waiting for the guy—not McKay, it _couldn't_ be—to make the next move, to do something.

"I want to suck you." The voice was soft, but he'd recognize it anywhere. His breath hitched at the very idea of McKay on his knees, usually voluble mouth silenced as he took John's dick all the way to the hilt.

"Yeah," John whispered back. "Condom." He was already reaching into his pocket for one, ignoring his own internal alarms in favor of the way his balls tightened at the thought. This was such a bad idea, such a _very_ bad idea, and John didn't even _care_.

McKay pushed his hand aside, rolling a condom onto him, all warm fingers and light, teasing strokes that were somehow both deft and really hot. "I've got it," he said. "Polyurethane. I'm allergic to latex."

And Jesus, wasn't it just like McKay to be allergic to rubbers. The urge to let loose with a near-hysterical giggle, though, vanished as McKay dropped to his knees in a quiet rustle of cloth, his hand trailing down John's left side from shoulder to hip, and then his mouth was closing around John's dick and all higher brain function just shut down. McKay sucked cock like it was the best thing ever, like he was never going to get another chance; it was a devastating combination of technique and enthusiasm. John let his head fall back against the wall, concentrated on breathing and not thrusting and not coming embarrassingly quickly.

 _This_ was what John had come here looking for, and how fucked up was it that he'd driven two hours to get an anonymous blowjob from someone he spent nearly every day with. The darkness hadn't been a problem before—he really hadn't wanted to see who was fucking him anyway—but now he wanted light, wanted to know whether McKay would be watching his face, waiting for him to lose control. Or maybe McKay would keep his eyes closed, focusing all of his attention on what he was doing, reading John by taste and by touch.

John knew where the light switch was, could reach it from where he was pressed up against the wall. It would be ridiculously easy to flip it, to fill the little booth with dim, flickering light that would expose both of them. _Bad. Fucking. Idea,_ John told himself, and he even mostly believed it.

He'd stopped himself from reaching out twice before he finally gave up, finally whispered, "Can I touch?" because feeling would be almost as good as seeing.

McKay groaned something that definitely sounded like an affirmative, leaning further in and swallowing around John's dick, making John groan too. Keeping it light, John started at the top of McKay's head, fingers trailing slowly down until he could feel the hollow of McKay's cheek as he sucked, could trace the edge of his jaw as it shifted with each slide of his mouth along John's shaft.

Between the slippery heat on his dick and the way McKay's free hand stroked restlessly at his hip, his thigh, the flat of his stomach, John couldn't hold back anymore. Habit born of years of barracks living kept him almost silent as he came, but McKay shifted away at the first twitch. "Oh, God, yeah. You're— Yeah," he said, hand wrapped tight around John's dick, jerking him off.

John slid the used condom off, tossing it over where he knew the trash can was. By the sound of it, McKay was getting to his feet; John reached out, hands easily coming to rest on broad shoulders then stroking downward. The sound of McKay's zipper was loud and John hesitated for half a second, torn between offering his hand or mouth and offering something more, torn between not letting this get any more complicated than it already had and getting what he'd come here for in the first place. The decision really wasn't that hard; he trusted McKay with his life on a daily basis.

"Fuck me." The words were still whispered, not because he didn't trust McKay but because he didn't trust himself.

He could hear McKay's breathing speed up, could imagine his eyes, wide and dark with surprise and arousal. John turned around, letting his jeans slide down his thighs, and braced himself against the wall.

"I.... I mean—" McKay started then broke off, and John wanted to snap at him, wanted to say, _Jesus, McKay, fuck me already_ , but he didn't—he _couldn't_ —so he waited. "No more condoms," McKay finally said. "That was my last." By which, John knew, he meant it was the only one he'd brought.

It was only years and years of paranoia and self-preservation instinct that stopped John from saying that he didn't care, stopped him from telling McKay to just do it anyway, to just fuck him bareback. Instead, he fumbled a condom from his pocket—one of the handful from Atlantis's stores that he'd had in his kit when they'd headed back to Earth for this debrief—and turned back around to where McKay was standing, silent enough that John wasn't quite sure where he was anymore.

"Here." He reached out, his hand brushing against McKay's chest almost immediately. Dropping awkwardly to his knees, his jeans still bunched across his thighs, he tore the wrapper open and tossed it aside, finding first McKay's hip and then his dick and giving in to the urge to lick a stripe up its length, to lean in and mouth the shaft, drawing a surprised-sounding moan from above. As much as he wanted McKay's dick in his mouth, though, wanted to feel the weight of it against his tongue, he wanted even more for McKay to fuck him. As he rolled the condom on, his movements quick and practiced and maybe just a little impatient, McKay made a small noise, barely more than just a sharp intake of breath.

John stood. "It's polyurethane, don't worry. Just— Hurry up. Do it." It was the most he had spoken the whole time, and he could feel the fluttering edge of panic building in his chest at the thought that maybe it was too much, maybe something about the words or their rhythms would give him away even if the whisper disguised his actual voice.

But if McKay was suspicious, he didn't give any indication; instead, he spun John around, pushing him up against the wall. It was rough but it felt like desperation more than anything, and shared desperation at that, so John just took it and widened his stance, arched his back. McKay pressed up against him, all heat and tension and barely restrained energy, then pushed into him with one long, smooth stroke that left John breathless and shuddering.

John pushed back, meeting him halfway on the next stroke and feeling McKay's fingers curl tighter on his hips, digging in, and it was almost, almost what John wanted, what he needed. "Please," he whispered, and McKay moaned, slamming into him, making him lock his elbows and brace himself against the wall, and that was _it_ , that was what he'd been looking for.

As McKay kept up the pace, kept up the perfect, hard thrusts, John sank into their rhythm, letting his head fall forward and curving his back just right so that McKay hit the sweet spot every time. And Jesus, if McKay could keep this up for long enough, John could probably come again, because his dick was showing renewed interest in the proceedings. Reaching down, he curled his fingers around it, a little surprised when it only took a couple of strokes for him to be fully hard again. He braced his forearm on his hip and started jacking himself in earnest.

"Oh, God, are you—" McKay's hand came around, his fingers tangling with John's, and John could hear his breathing turn harsh and ragged. "Come on. I want to feel you come, John."

John did.

Behind him, McKay thrust once more, then stilled, his breath warm against the back of John's neck for the space of a few heartbeats before he pulled back and John could hear the rustle of clothing being rearranged as he tugged his own jeans into place. He'd pulled up the front of his tee-shirt to mop the sweat from his face when he caught the flash of light out of the corner of his eye: McKay, ducking out through the curtain. He felt something twist in his chest; he'd expected more, expected _better_ of McKay. As soon as he thought it, he realized how completely irrational that was. McKay had come here for an anonymous fuck, just like every other guy in this place. Why should John expect him to behave any differently?

_I want to feel you come, John._

John was out of the booth and halfway down the corridor to the back door before the rational part of his brain took over again. Going off half-cocked was probably the worst thing he could do, all things considered. He didn't even know for sure that McKay had recognized him; maybe he'd just been fantasizing, maybe he'd even been cruising for someone reminiscent of John.

He tucked his tee-shirt into his jeans, then pushed the door open and stepped out into the cool night air. Whichever it was, he'd find out tomorrow morning, before the next round of debriefings.


End file.
